I spent a lot of summers with my aunt Lori, uncle Tim, and the kids.
Every time they moved, I would fly to a new place, experience new things, make new memories.
For my twelfth birthday, Lori thought a cake would be an understatement. Instead, she bought a pound of spinach dip, turned it upside down, dumped it in a large bowl, and lit a candle in the middle. Aaron, Kathryn (4 at the time), and their friends sang the normal Happy Birthday song, adding "cha-cha-cha!" in between verses. Even the kids loved the dip. And for a present, Lori would teach me how to horseback ride the correct English-style way.
She took me water-skiing, hiking, camping. All the things you do to get away from the world you're used to, and experience wilderness at it's greatest. She was angry when the only camp site we could find was surrounded by campers and wooden benches. She said, "This isn't the way you camp!". She always knew how to have fun. Always checked our heads for ticks, and wouldn't listen when I (being 17) could check my own head for bugs.
In Chicago, we walked for miles. Ended up at Navy Pier, where she took me mega- shopping. We made hand caskets where you hold your hand in a position (mine said "I love you" in sign language), stick your hand in a bucket of hot wax and presto! -- It's a lovely hand statue. We spent a day with my aunt Lynora, and Lori pressed her sister's friend to sing Opera in a tiny, cluttered apartment. She had this way of convincing you to do something that showed your strengths (something you wouldn't normally do for just anyone), and later you'd be proud of yourself. She'd say "I told you!"
My aunt Lori also had a way of making you forget to be embarrassed. If I fell down a small flight of stairs, she'd ask me if I was allright, say "of course you are" and then laugh. She'd remind me later that I was a clutz.
She used to meet me in the bathroom halfway between ready, and sit on the lidded toilet seat. Start conversations. And I wouldn't even realize that all she was wearing was a towel.
These memories are a lot. I have a lot more. But for now, the best feelings I have are reflections on all the little things Lori did. She was unlike anyone I've ever met. She was a great friend of mine.
Every time they moved, I would fly to a new place, experience new things, make new memories.
For my twelfth birthday, Lori thought a cake would be an understatement. Instead, she bought a pound of spinach dip, turned it upside down, dumped it in a large bowl, and lit a candle in the middle. Aaron, Kathryn (4 at the time), and their friends sang the normal Happy Birthday song, adding "cha-cha-cha!" in between verses. Even the kids loved the dip. And for a present, Lori would teach me how to horseback ride the correct English-style way.
She took me water-skiing, hiking, camping. All the things you do to get away from the world you're used to, and experience wilderness at it's greatest. She was angry when the only camp site we could find was surrounded by campers and wooden benches. She said, "This isn't the way you camp!". She always knew how to have fun. Always checked our heads for ticks, and wouldn't listen when I (being 17) could check my own head for bugs.
In Chicago, we walked for miles. Ended up at Navy Pier, where she took me mega- shopping. We made hand caskets where you hold your hand in a position (mine said "I love you" in sign language), stick your hand in a bucket of hot wax and presto! -- It's a lovely hand statue. We spent a day with my aunt Lynora, and Lori pressed her sister's friend to sing Opera in a tiny, cluttered apartment. She had this way of convincing you to do something that showed your strengths (something you wouldn't normally do for just anyone), and later you'd be proud of yourself. She'd say "I told you!"
My aunt Lori also had a way of making you forget to be embarrassed. If I fell down a small flight of stairs, she'd ask me if I was allright, say "of course you are" and then laugh. She'd remind me later that I was a clutz.
She used to meet me in the bathroom halfway between ready, and sit on the lidded toilet seat. Start conversations. And I wouldn't even realize that all she was wearing was a towel.
These memories are a lot. I have a lot more. But for now, the best feelings I have are reflections on all the little things Lori did. She was unlike anyone I've ever met. She was a great friend of mine.
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